POEMS 



D. C; 



FEINTED FOR PRIVATE CIRCULATION, 



1855- 






205449 
'13 



The affectionate and thrice-urged request of my 
Family is my only excuse for rushing into print. 
I hope the Reader wilD Accept * it, and forgive the 
intrusion, and the errors that will be too easily 
discovered in the following pages. 

D. C. 



PREFACE. 



The Bee, in rambling o'er the varied plain 

Of Nature's vast dominion, culling flowers, 
Suits her own free taste, and, in their train, 

Visits wild plants, as well as cultur'd bowers. 
So I, the honey of this little hive, 

Gather' d from now'rs where'er their fragrance rose, 
And anxiously to lyric sweets alive, 

Receiv'd as Nature kindly did disclose. 



INDEX. 



PAGE. 

Sabbath Bell 1 

Ode to Swanscombe 17 

Morning 23 

Invocation 26 

To my Daughter 29 

Stanzas to a Lady under affliction 32 

Paraphrase : Psalm, xliv, v. 6 • . . . , , 34 

Hymn from the Litany . 37 

Peter's Tears : Luke, xxii, v. 61 40 

Christian Progress : Psalm, xxxix, v. 4. . . . . . 42 

Jairus' Daughter 45 

Regeneration 47 

Day-Spring from on High 49 

Immortality 51 

Paraphrase: Isaiah, c. 40, v. 31 54 

Paraphrase : Isaiah, c. 66, v. 2 56 

Lord's Prayer Versified 57 

A Fragment 58 

Vale of Avoca 61 

I am a Single Man 63 

Stanzas to M , . 65 

Lament of the Spirit of the Wye , 67 

Village of Brecknockshire 69 

Stanzas for Music 71 

Impromptu 73 

Lines for a Lady's Album 74 

Stanzas to a Lady , 76 

Stanzas to a Lady 80 

Stanzas Addressed to 81 

The Same, three years after 83 

Friendship 85 

Black-Puddings 87 

The " Hand " Hotel, Llangollen 92 

Castell Dinas Bran 94 



EfiKATA. 

Page 4, line 12.— -For " attitude," read " altitude." 
„ 43, line 6. — Read " E'en in this world," &c. 
s , 44, verse 2, line 2 — For " ? " read " ! " 



THE SABBATH BELL. 



The Sabbath Bell ! how sweetly peals the note, 
Which gently ushers in to hearts devout 
The Sabbath morn ! that radiating beam, 
Sent forth from light through Christian souls to gleam, 
And leave its passing heavenly lustre there, 
That Christians may its cheering influence share. 
Blest intonation ! sweetly to impart 
Concords of softening music through the heart ; 
"Whence all the clanging rough discordant sounds, 
With which that tumulus, the world, abounds, 
May haste in sudden cadence from the ear, 
And end in silence dark their wild career. 

I heard the Sabbath Bell ! for years my course 
Had been as though the world's impetuous force 
Had stilled my heart's once fond responsive note, 
To that rich symphony which erst afloat, 
Upon the ringing breeze oft charmed my soul, 
And o'er it swayed with firm yet soft controul. 



'2 THE SABBATH BELL. 

I had loved fame and honours ; honours, fame, 
Might add ephemeral lustre to my name ; 
Or dazzle crowds, or win the thoughtless mind, 
To superficial brilliancy inclined ; 
Might give me riches, riches such as those, 
Which add not to man's silent safe repose, 
But weigh most burthensome upon the breast, 
Increasing cares to enervate the rest. 
It did all this, and clothed with the applause, 
The world gives with, aye, e'en without a cause, 
I thought myself thrice armed ! Alas, weak man, 
But was I armed within ? "Whilst trifles fan 
The fluttering vain conceits that stain the mind, 
And warp the judgment, never so refined ; 
Whilst man, engaged in busy nothings, wends 
His customed course, which e'en to nothing tends, 
But gathering wayside flowers — flowers that fade, 
And soon are of their fragrance disarrayed ; 
Pure morning smiles and noon's effulgence glows, 
And evening lulls, and night her rest bestows ; 
Doth night refresh, or evening merely lull, 
Or noon but glow, or morn be bountiful, 
And teach not man, his restless care pursuing, 
Till his worn heart is filled to overflowing, 
While nature shines for him at noon or night, 
That he should also shine with inward light ; 



THE SABBATH BELL. 

But man's best light, alas, how poor ! how dim! 
How soon dispersed by heaven's slightest gleam ! 
'Tis thus with all, yes, whosoe'er thou art, 
'Tis so with thee, — examine else thy heart. 
Buoyed up by self, in self's own halo clad, 
Dreaming my heart with fancied pleasures glad, 
Believing self but self's own parallel, 
In self immersed, I heard the Sabbath Bell. 

'Twas like a meteor, not that scorching glare, 
Dazzling through night athwart the streaming air, 
'Twas as when formless clouds o'er-gloom the day, 
Half-hidden beams from heaven's light display, 
Fringing the mist, the glowing warmth within, 
And with oblique incipient radiance shine, 
Dispel the clouds, banish the desert gloom, 
Light up the spirits, and the heart illume. 
Around t'was silent save the whispering rill, 
Warbling its trembling melody, — the hill 
Glimmered with chequered green, the tow'ring blade, 
By morning gilt, waved slanting o'er the glade ; 
Anon, in thousand dewy spangles decked, 
While varied prisms did in each reflect, 
The rippling circlets o'er the tranquil stream, 
Flashed, as they rode, with evanescent gleam, 
And quick as thought, again in flashes bright, 
Played, as it seemed, in gems of liquid light 



4 THE SABBATH BELL. 

Bending with gentle grace, the waving boughs 
Threw their relieving shadows from the brows ; — 
Nature was in her gayest robes attired, 
And wanted nought for loveliness desired ; 
The sacred tones now swelling through the air 
Had oft reverberated music there, 
And the full echoes sweeter chords had trilled, 
When later notes returning zephyrs filled ; 
But such rich concord had they never played, 
As now when softly borne above the glade, 
They struck my ear, my heart its deadness viewed, 
And lived, (humility's best attitude,) 
Resuscitate by tears, and heavenward sighs, 
The elevation meek of downcast eyes. 

Dost seek, thou simple habitant of peace, 
"Wherein thine own loved wisdom shall increase ? 
Doth fancy tell thee, there thy worth is seen, 
Where crowds assemble jostling through the scene, 
As though for very life they onward press, 
Who loving first themselves, the rest profess ? 
Quit then the scene where innocence and truth 
Have trained thy infancy, and cheered thy youth. 
Where fashion ne'er with guileful art hath shed 
Its baleful influence o'er thy painless head, 
Where envy or ambition, wealth or power, 
Hath not yet had or claimed its dark'ning hour. 



THE SABBATH BELL. 

Quit then thy peace ! but, oh, frail man, beware, 
Lest thou should' st also leave thy Saviour there. 
Cling to that incommunicable flame 
Which cheers the pious resting on that name ; 
Oh, ever seek that bright and morning Star, 
"Which shines within, and lights thy path afar ; 
And seek it first — breathe swift the trembling sigh, 
For that pure light — the Day-spring from on high, 
Oh, let the all important Gospel sound 
Clear through thine ears, and in thine heart rebound ; 
With it the world may ring its jarring din, 
But ne'er can enervate thy strength within ; 
Without the very music of the spheres 
Gnashes and grates fell discord in thine ears ; — 
With it the stars may hide their azure light, 
The kindling fleece that bids farewell to night, 
And that bright circle whose remotest rays 
Light worlds and systems in its cheering blaze, 
All sink to nothing, or to darkness tend, 
The Gospel beams all other light transcend. 

Hast thou e'er heard at summer's even-tide 
When thoughtfully the placid stream beside, 
Thy heart was raised to heaven and heavenly things, 
And tranquil joy seemed borne, on angel's wings, 



THE SABBATH BELL. 

Into thy very soul, and all seemed peace, 

A foretaste of that bliss which ne'er should cease ? 

Oh, hast thou heard the rustic village bells 

Riding afloat in undulating swells, 

Pealing delightful music to invite 

The Christian wanderer, careless or contrite, 

Unto the Sabbath service, the pure praise 

Of unsophisticate and simple lays, 

Conjoined in artless prayer, in unison 

Ascend like incense to the heavenly throne ? 

Is it not sweet ? 'tis sweet, if haply there, 

The world its claim upon our hearts can spare ; 

If love domestic hath our thoughts enchained, 

If charity and faith within have reigned, 

And still remain to influence our choice 

'Twixt pleasure's call and heaven's entrancing voice. 

Is it not sweet ? the soul with rapture swelling, 

Its inward hopes all other joys excelling, 

Fragrance around to gratify the sense, 

Nature bright beaming with benevolence, 

Whilst meekness, care, and innocence, combine 

To render happy the domestic shrine, 

"With gratitude and love the heart replete, 

To him who teaches love, — is it not sweet ? 

Ye only know whose wise and happy choice 

Is the pure thrill of heaven's still small voice, 



THE SABBATH BELL, 

Preferred above the ringing dulcet strains 
Which music mere in happiest hour attains ; 
Ye only know who can in silence find 
That quiet harmony that calms the mind. 
That rich expressive music of the soul, 
Whose notes successive strengthen as they roll ; 
Who in the town a barren desert view, 
And can the desert's solitude pursue, 
Can value its companionship alone, 
Reflection being thy truest friend, thy own. 

The Bell has tolled ! but as its simple note 
In tapering sweetness wanders more remote, 
Hath its clear sound thy faithful heart entwined, 
Or lulled deceitfully thy pliant mind ? 
Doth it, as each alternate note succeeds, 
Tell thee from whence, and whither, it proceeds ? 
And dost thou feel it too ? each winding trace, 
From its first peal to where its sound doth cease ? 
'Tis not the sound alone e'er satisfies 
The eager heart that seeks a solid prize : 
Yet be ye hearers ! be not like the stream, 
Which bound in frost, so listless doth beseem, 
As to refuse reflection's hallowed light 
From the bright blue that bounds ethereal height ! 
But be not hearers only, like the river, 
Receiving and rejecting impress ever ! 



8 THE SABBATH BELL. 

Behold the mind by worldliness subdued, 
"Whom transient joys and wrinkling cares delude ; 
The hoarder first, lured by the chink of gold, 
Gloats o'er his heaps, as each is slowly told ; 
Straining at gnats, which sting him as he strains, 
He soils his fingers, as he counts his gains, 
And builds up riches ; but he cannot tell 
Whoe'er shall gather them, and when the knell 
Doth his departure hence announce, his heirs, 
Disgusted at his past unworthy cares, 
Hush to extremes, and, eager as he saved, 
Lavish amongst the foolish and depraved, 
The hard-earned wealth, and wanton bacchanals 
Crowd headlong to his nightly festivals : 
Flushed with the tint of foul debauch, their songs 
To ruin hurl the reckless, hapless throngs. 
" Fill up the goblet !" cries the thoughtless youth, 
" This is the life that men should live in sooth ; 
" Clang the loud cymbal ! let the trumpets sound ! 
" And echo's voice with softening strains rebound ; 
" Blow ye the shawms, let each successive note 
" Upon the zephyr's fragrant bosom float ; 
" Bring me the golden cup of choicest wine, 
" That Bacchus may Cecilia's charms entwine ; 
" All hearts with sweetest melody shall sing, 
" Let nought but gladness through the welkin ring ! 



THE SABBATH BELL. 

Gladness may gleam above, beneath, around ; 

But doth, it shine within ? there joy hath frowned 

Its melancholy smiles, if that be joy, 

Whose honeyed lips attract but to destroy, — 

If that be joy, whose blandishments depart, 

Ere felt, and hurl to bitterness the heart,— 

If that be joy which murders while it smiles, 

And with sweet venom smoothes its purest guiles ; 

There, midst the chaos folly's god uprears 

The still small voice sounds thunders in his ears ; 

There heav'n's glimpse, with lightning's scorch alarms, 

His heart portending beats with blighting storms ; 

If revels e'er produce a joylike dream, 

'Tis like the foam upon th' impetuous stream, — 

Seen but to vanish in the grasping river, 

The memory sa-ved, — the rest is lost for ever ! 

And then the trifler : — oft with nought surprised, 

How base is he ! how worthless ! how despised ! 

He, like the butterfly in flattering day, 

Flutters and nutters half his life away, 

And seized by darkness waiting for its own, 

Begins to think, — but, lo ! his thoughts are gone ! 

Unfixed in purpose, guiltless of design, 

He falls a sacrifice to folly's shrine, 

And, like the moth, in broad destruction's snare, 

Plunges unheedful of the lurid glare ! 



10 THE SABBATH BELL. 

But, lo ! advancing pride ! his step how slow ; 
Erect his mien, — averted is his brow ; 
Trampling on earth he dreams himself august, 
Yet soils his sandals with patrician dust, 
While yonder scarce-seen insect, as it flies, 
With poison charged, may claim him as its prize, 
And then the lordling's vanity o'erthrown, 
Aye, e'en the monarch's last reluctant groan, 
Beams such sure beacons to the friend of truth, 
The wonder is that all, both age and youth, 
Quick in aught else that may concern the sense, 
Treat solemn facts as shallow vain pretence. 
The lord may die, may perish e'en in death, 
Is it not thus ? that when the gasping breath 
Has ceased to struggle for its fancied own, 
The heir in eagerness to sway alone, 
With formal rev'rence only, hastes the day 
To banish sad remembrances away, — 
Wipes the dry eye, breathes the unfelt regret, 
Inters the corse, and — grasps the coronet ! 
Ascend and view the monarch in his state ; 
His smile shall make e'en lofty hearts elate, 
His frown how saddening, who so great as he ? 
Yet fate a fall doth e'en to him decree ! 
He dies ! his groans discordant music sound, 
And none can dare his wasted corse surround, 



THE SABBATH BELL. 11 

The "presence" becomes loathsome, and the king- 
Is now the gorging -worm's sweet offering ! 
Oh, man, thou art diminutively great ! 
Thy lifeless life— thy highest, best estate, 
How shallow ! how unable to disclose 
Aught but the tinsel splendid folly shows. 

'Tis not for these the Sabbath Bell hath charms, 
Nor such religion's brightest ray e'er warms, 
The best if e'er he thinks in all his zeal, 
May talk of duty but he cannot feel ; 
His utmost 'tis but once or twice each day, 
To say his prayers, but not those prayers to pray, 

But then that bold bad man, the infidel, 
If there be such, who mocks the Sabbath Bell, 
Faithless alike in action and desire, 
Whose impulse ne'er can sound the heavenly lyre ; 
Lost in the labyrinth of proud conceit, 
Each ray, each zephyr, hurls the horrid threat ; 
Though steel-clad, how his heart his fears betrays, 
And heaven's light to him is hell's foul blaze ; 
Sweet unison and chord to him appear, 
"With uproar's crash to rend the hemisphere. 
Keason ! proud reason ! sounds the awful din, 
The blackness drear of darkness reigns within, 
Life is his death ! and death in horror viewed 
With three-fold sting, doth his career conclude. 



12 THE SABBATH BELL. 

How many more, alas, of folly's schemes, 
How many more of vain delusive dreams, 
How often man to truth, becomes adverse, 
Recounting brief would swell my tedious verse. 
Some of these thou, whoe'er thou art, would' st find 
A harsh but faithful picture of thy mind. 
Ah, feelest thou the echo of this truth, 
And can'st disdain the threatenings, forsooth ? 
Then speed, reflect, that thou its power shalt learn, 
When with religious love thy heart shall burn, 
And know, howe'er the precept thou may'st slight, 
That e'en thy penitence may yield delight. 
Yes, all created things shall homage pay 
To the bright soul that can devoutly pray ; 
Terror is straight disarmed, — fear starts aghast, 
And envy withers in its own fierce blast ; 
The softening influence penitence displays, 
Can moderate thy views, turn prayer to praise, 
Spread like a garment o'er the troubled soul, 
Subdue the passions, and the hopes controul ; 
Calm groundless fears, assuage our worldly grief, 
And teach us from above to seek relief ; 
Can stir the woods to rustle inward peace, 
And shine at midnight, mid- day's light increase, — 
Aye, in the simoom breathe such fragrance pure, 
As Araby's soft gales can ne'er procure ; 



THE SABBATH BELL. 13 

The faint and crimson distant streak as night 

Bounds the horizon to the outward sight ; 

And the black mantle spread o'er all above, 

"With radiance beam of happiness and love, 

The desert drear, or hill it be, or dale, 

Where all that breathe of beauty seem to fail, 

Shall picture pure delight unto the mind, 

Though taste be not by worldly whims refined ; 

The matin sonnet, as it opes the day, 

In airy concord, borne upon the ray 

Of streaming light, its symphony resounds, 

And swelling music in the heart abounds, 

The purl which tinkles on the evening rill, 

As silvery lines descend the shelt'ring hill, 

Whispers its trembling melody so sweet, 

That love-beams pour through all the blest retreat, 

And hence the music rich of every swell, 

That travels from the simple Sabbath Bell ; 

Such cheering influence its notes impart, 

As charms the ear, and penetrates the heart ; 

Not timbrel loud, though grace its notes pulsate, 

While air mellifluous seems those notes to wait, 

Not the blithe pipe o'er winding streamlets smooth, 

Whose sounds appear e'en silence' self to soothe, 

Nor swift reverberations as they seem 

To leap the crags and glide along the stream, 



14 THE SABBATH BELL. 

And thence into the inlet whisper soft, 

Or spread in airy semitones aloft ; 

Just as the spirit of the vortex sings 

The scarce-heard lay, whose sweet imaginings 

Lure the full fancy to the dark'ning cave, 

Where many a legend mourns the madly brave,— 

Where sadness, seeking for itself relief, — 

Finds mimic echo mocks loquacious grief, — 

Where heaving hope, eager its joys to tell, 

Hears gratulations pour in every swell. 

No sounds can teach th' aspiring soul to live, 

Like those we from the Sabbath Bell derive ! 

Though peace and hope the cheering bell resounds, 
Though with sweet concord every note abounds, 
What dire alarms pour from the solemn knell ! 
A friend's departure hence it soon may tell, — 
And, with repeated echoes, soon thine own 
May be announced in that slow solemn tone ; 
Shall it thy summons be, and to thy doom, 
As thy cold form is vested with the tomb ? 
Or shall it be the merciful invite 
To dwell in regions of eternal light ? 
Whene'er the sound again thine ear invokes, 
Discern a warning in the varied strokes ; 
The merry peal, the sacred Sabbath chime, 
The mourning toll, the hourly knell of time, 



THE SABBATH BELL. 15 

Do all their friendly admonitions give, 
Then warning, warning, from their notes derive ; 
Learn, ere the sounds distinct shall pass in haste, 
And soon are lost upon the reckless waste, 
To hymn responsive harmony in songs, 
All upwards tending to yon choral throngs, 
Singing their praises to the heavenly throne, 
And that blest Being who did thy sins atone. 

Oh, may the desperate and jarring bray, 
The gong of discord spreads in this our day, 
Soon, soon, be mute ; — soon may that subtle fiend, 
"Wild infidelity, its curse expend ! 
Whether in clamour base alike and rude, 
It doth its hideous serpent form obtrude, 
Or in the court, or in the senate crawly 
In error's maze the conscience to enthral, 
Soon may its pois'nous blast which now vibrates, 
With awful din, and madly violates 
The temple's sanctity to Christians dear, 
Like scorpions rank, destroy its own career ! 
Oh, may it dash to waste in wild despair, 
All its foul triumphs in its own fell snare, 
By brooding demons webb'd in hell's worst hell, 
Horrors with horrors vying to excel ; 
Mammon and Lucifer, Abaddon too, 
Belial and Beelzebub, the work pursue ; 



16 THE SABBATH BELL. 

And Moloch, blood-stained serpent, plies with toil, 
By Satan urged, religion's work to foil ; 
And all the powers of all the hells combined, 
Strive in their clutch to grasp the human mind. 

Ye, then, on whom the Sabbath Bell depends, 
For its mere peal, — if ye indeed be friends 
To pure religion, undefiled, beware 
Of that wild dissonance which rends the air, 
For equal reign for all. It sore besets 
With sophist's reasons, teeming with wild threats, 
That sacred porch, that holy temple's gate 
Which all their effort 'tis to subjugate, 
For motives worldly, not for heav'nly gain, 
Or why for fancied worldly loss complain ? 
But look we higher ! Parent of light and life ! 
Uphold thy sanctuary, quell the strife 
Which threatens, with a stern malignant frown, 
To bow thine edifice with sorrow down ! — 
Thou wilt ! for thou hast said, I know thou wilt, — 
Thy temple on eternal rocks is built, 
They ne'er shall shake thy church, — the gates of hell 
Shall not prevail against the Sabbath Bell ! 



17 



ODE TO SWANSCOMBE, KENT. 



Oj? rural scenery and glen-like groves, 
Of thoughts that pure affection always loves, 
Of silent moments when the placid sky 
Raises the wand' ring soul to ecstacy, — 
When nought disturbs the noiseless breath of air, 
That hovers round, fit antidote for care, 
My pen indites ; and oh, my slumb'ring muse, 
Assist reflection, let my mind peruse, 
In sober, cheerful, sad, poetic strain, 
From worldly pleasures free, and free from pain, 
Mental perspective ! distant scenes of life, 
Ephemeral joys, — unprofitable strife : 
Support my trembling heart, whose wav'ring fears 
Cross my best hopes, which yet succeed to tears, 
Lest, whilst the mind on yonder picture dwells, 
Its interest our better thoughts dispels ; 
And, like the world on others' faults descant, 
"Which oft do ours alternately supplant. 



18 ODE TO SWANSCOMBE. 

Oh,- paint the view in colours passing bright, 
The points the same, but seen in noon-day light, 
Imparting warmth and gen'rous influence, 
With needless checks in charity dispense ; 
Not the pale glare the lamp of night displays, 
But vernal, cheering, heart-impressing rays. 
Oh, come reflection, aid my hallow' d cause ; 
Banish the fear of man, the world's applause ; 
Lead my aspiring thoughts to heav'n's expanse, 
My latent love to heav'n's laws enhance ; 
Extend the scintillating spirit's might, 
To the broad flame of spiritual light. 
Impulse, away ! reflection's heaving foe, 
Incessant, restless, evanescent glow ! 
Slow in being cautious, not so slow to feel, 
Thy fire I love, but not thy thoughtless zeal. 

Swanscombe ! to thee my pen's poetic theme, 
In early effort, wends its humble gleam. 
Here on this clefted oak, which prostrate lies, 
(Just type of men's resistless destinies !) 
The mind submissive in the Paphian scene, 
Flees from tumultuous joys and worldly spleen. 
Yon modest spire, tap'ring to heav'n's blue arch, 
'Midst the proud oak and unassuming larch, 
Apes not the pride of tow'ring abbey walls, 
Tells no sad tale, which feeling hearts appals, 



ODE TO SWANSCOMBE, 

Meekly attracts man's wayward confidence, 
Its richest, purest, blessings to dispense. 
Within its walls how oft the pastor's care* 
Is seen in quiet spirit-stirring prayer ; 
No flights of Sabbath rhetoric is shown, 
As if, forsooth, his duties then were done ; 
No useless metaphor to man is given, 
Pointing to man the worldling's path to heav'n ; 
But precept and example, hand in hand, 
Invite the exile to the " promised land !" 

What is the worldling ? not that churlish fiend, 
Preying on man, because by man chagrined : 
Not that fell being, teeming with discontent, 
Whose fitful days in hateful spleen are spent. 
Man is a worldling ! oh, my conscious heart, 
Be hushed ! and yet be roused — and know thy part 
In this world's thoughtless drama. When the gay, 
With aspect smiling like the sun-lit day, 
When all around dazzles in splendour bright, 
And fashion's day begins at nature's night, 
Music's seductive eloquence displays 
Entrancing power 'midst the cheerful blaze ; 
Flows the rich nectar, and the careless throng 
Count not the hours as they whirl along ; 

* The Rev. G. C. Renouard, Rector of Swanscombe. 
c2 



19 



20 ODE TO SWANSCOMBE. 

Beauty by rival numbers is caress' d, 

Bapt'rous emotions fill the panting breast : — 

Behold the worldling then ! alas, those hours 

May be thy last, — thy sandy current low'rs, 

The lute's unstrung, — the mazy dance is o'er, 

And sickness comes,- — and pleasure charms no more ! 

Foreboding cries the wrestling hours fill, 

The spoiler levels, — and the air is still ! 

The gayest laurels of the world are won, 

The tastes are gratified, the soul undone ! 

Oh, thou, who badst me first my verse design,* 
Cecilia's emblem, sprightliest of the nine, 
See yonder blue-bells gentle play around, 
And chaste forget-me-nots in peace abound ; 
The modest daisies sprinkling the rich glade, 
Yon grassy lake, with softly waving blade ; 
Not with the simoom's with'ring blast beguil'd, 
But gentle zephyr's aspirations mild, 
Mark how in nature's merriest mood they play, 
How little reck they of the coming day ; 
In very wantonness their heads incline, 
And dream not wherefore they should e'er repine. 
Lo ! how the husbandman, with ruthless heart, 
Or, worse than this, most heartless, acts his part. 



ODE TO SWANSCOMBE. 21 

What boots it to be snatch' d from off the land, 

By his fell weapon, or thy gentle hand ? 

These arching pines, whose fondly clasping boughs 

Shield us from noon-day's sun or winter's snows, 

The hospitable foliage of the grove, 

May teach us friendship, and may foster love, — 

This mantling wood may cheer thy sparkling eye, 

That boundless picture with thy mind may vie ; 

But all must wither ! worthlessness and worth ! 

All must be told — " why cumb'rest thou the earth r" 

But lest the mind to dark despair should tend, 

Repeated blessings on our heads descend, 

" Sermons in stones, and books in streams," appear, 

And smiles, in kindness, chase th' intruding tear ; 

These swelling paths, alternate hill and vale, 

Man's undulating chequered course detail. 

When we depart awhile from worldly care, 

And hear the birds carol the list'ning air, 

When fragrant incense from the flow'rs ascends, 

And friendship's voice our cheerful path attends, 

Doth not the heart's emotion new and strange, 

Become more rich, more happy from the change ! 

Doth not the very novelty invite 

Joy more intense, more rapturous delight ? 

As yon winged choristers their anthems swell, 

Expanding notes soft warblings to excel ! 



Z'2 ODE TO SWANSCOMBE, 

E'en here my heart no happiness could trace, 
Ah, joy would flee, and sorrow come apace ! 
Unless 'twas shared by her, whose fate is mine, 
Mine in her gladness, mine should she repine ; 
Whose virtue emulates devoted love, 
Firm in being just, gentle to reprove ; 
Whose kind affection doth my heart o'erflow, 
Whose real worth none like myself can know. 
Home is her haven — home where most she shines, 
To home, with her, my willing heart inclines ; — 
Farewell, then, pine»clad and luxuriant dell, 
Ye rugged heights and brightening glades, farewell ! 
Tho' with fatigue the wearied pilgrims bend, 
And climb with toil, they yet with hope ascend, 
But one remains to friendship's memory dear; 
Fail- one, for thee, my parting lines appear ! 
Whose genuine feelings oft my thanks recal, 
Replete with kindness, tho' in Mercy Small;* 
May she inspire fresh joy with every breath, 
And hope unlimited attend her death ! 

* The name of a lady then living at Swanscombe. 



23 



MORNING. 



Tis Morning ! Nature's sight-reviving green 
Gathers fresh richness from her rest serene ; 
Night, like true charity, her aid bestows, 
All else being still, celestial goodness flows ; 
The glist'ning blade, with brightest gems bedeck' d, 
Doth all its charms in gratitude collect ; 
The flowery cups which decorate the plain, 
'Mid trembling eagerness their dews retain, 
Till yon approaching lord of thirsty day 
Drinks, with fresh charms the meadow to array, 
Expressive stillness reigns, receding stars 
Back to their halos wheel their twinkling cars : 
The vestal lamp, which late, in splendour bright, 
Lit the blue concave of mysterious night, 
Retiring to her azure-covered bed, 
No more her silver lustre deigns to shed ; 
The heav'ns which, all night long, in deep array, 
Mourned their bereavement of departed day, 
Save where their crystal garb, in chaste relief, 
Varied the sombre tenour of their grief, 



24 MORNING. 

Are now attired in ether's brightest blue, 
Opaque of late, but now of lucent hue, 
Unsullied e'en by day's sulphureous curl, 
And pure as buds which time must yet unfurl. 

How weak a being is man ! this silent scene 
Doth all his boasted vigour supervene ; 
And pride and merriment may stay their power, 
List'ning attentive to the speaking hour. 
Hise, brilliant orb ! lengthen, attendant shade, 
And let thy flauntings be by light dismayed. 
Thy dark colossal form its length extends, 
Nor space nor substance 'gainst thy power contends ; 
The level mead, the steep or shelving ridge, 
Ne'er can thy strength abate, thy length abridge : 
Man views the scene, his swelling thoughts arise, 
" All, all is mine •" exultingly he cries ; 
While hands, uplift, point where his treasures bound, 
How soon dost thou his arrogance confound ! 
Thy mimic arms, though sinewless, appear 
To mock poor pride's presumptuous career ; 
Perhaps in humbler attitude, we kneel, 
Then — then can'st thou our pray'rless pray'rs reveal, 
Expressive nothingness ! avaunt ! I fain 
"Would strive thy passing swiftness to attain ! 
No bow can with its sudden strains propel 
The massive dart, whose speed it cloth excel; 



25 



With the celerity thy flight displays, 

When man attempts thy touchless shape to seize. 

In vain he grasps, the shade his touch elude?, 

With bold defiance still the form obtrudes ! 

Hold ! flitting phantom ! yon revealing sun 

Approaches, and thy vauntings are undone ; 

His vertical display dispels thy pow'r, 

Which dared us but a short tho' meaning hour, 

Thy shameless crouchings now thy fears betray, 

Beneath our feet he terminates thy sway. 

And such is man's imaginary pow'r, 

And such the boaster's retributive hour, 

The hour of payment, that when strength is shorn, 

And shows the flimsy veil it long hath worn ; 

The adventitious jingle of a name, 

The vapours of a breath-existent fame, 

Have now their value known, and fond conceit, 

That prized, most high, the vain, absorbing cheat, 

Stripped of the armour of exulting pride, 

Which, ne'er protecting, serves but to misguide, 

Is soon envelop'd in o'erwhelming shame — 

That, doth its native littleness proclaim. 



26 



INVOCATION. 



Come, Inspiration ! borne on classic wing, 
To whom my fickle muse doth fondly cling ; 
Come to her aid, thy fav'ring ear incline, 
And fire poetic with my verse entwine. 
Come, Genius ! not with scintillating ray, 
As thou art wont, — come with the light of day ; 
Vouchsafe thy fost'ring hand, thy cheering smile, 
Extend thy soft'ning influence the while. 
And Fancy ! who, with high imaginings, 
Such perfume to the lyric bouquet brings, 
Descend, with halo of pellucid light, 
Wrought by gay elfins of the moonbeams bright ; 
Effuse thy peerless lustre, that my soul 
May yield its powers to thy soft controul. 
Reason, though stern, yet placable thy sway, 
Afford thy succour to my trembling lay ; 
Shield me with panoply of doubtless might, 
In tranquil moments shed revealing light. 
Oft doth the mind to realms of fancy wend, 
And to fair Helicon her footsteps bend ; 



INVOCATION. 27 

Oft do the heart's romantic hopes abide 

In classic regions where the muses hide ; 

Too oft, alas, doth Hippocrene's source 

Impel its vot'ries with resistless force ; 

The reckless current, conscious of its powers, 

Hurries the victim to his fated hours ; 

The potent stream, in limpid heavings swells, 

And reason's influence in sport dispels ; — 

The draught may drown the instant's worldly care, 

Or cheer th' afflicted, soothe the blandish' d fair, 

Or in the sombre measured verse excite, 

Its tripping numbers may the mind delight ; 

But he who ventures o'er the ridgy height 

Of proud Parnassus, seeking classic light, 

Burden' d with chains of cank'ring fears below, 

Dares, like a madman, to his overthrow ; 

Seeks ready warmth from snow, poetic joy 

From avalanches, eager to destroy, 

From flitting touchless clouds, whose bosoms heave 

"With sudden storm the pilgrim to deceive, 

And finds at length the breezy mountain air 

Merged in the gale of cark bewild'ring care ; 

The gale its eddying influence extends, 

And spitefully the glassy water rends, 

Till the smooth stream, in noiseless course dismayed. 

Its gentle whisp'rings by the blast betrayed, 



28 INVOCATION. 

In hideous roar doth nature's self appal, 
"With Maelstrom's whirl, or Foyer's rocky fall ; 
And Orpheus' fate the wearied bard attends, 
Hebrus' sad history his struggling ends. 



29 



TO MY DAUGHTER, 



AGED THREE YEARS, PLAYING ON THE GREEN. 



What happiness, surrounding, 
Meets thy gaze, my child, to-day ! 

'Midst thy trifling tricks abounding, 
Pretty innocent at play ! 

Thy father's smile doth greet thee, 
And the stm shines o'er thy head, 

As he gaily hastes to meet thee, 
Whilst on velvet thou dost tread. 

Thy half-intended tumble 
E'en replenishes thy bliss, — 

The attempt, however humble, 
Is a pretext for a kiss. 

As thy little artless gambols 
Are by all around caressed, 

So thy parents, in their rambles 
Call thee better than the best. 



30 TO MY DAUGHTER. 

E'en thy trickling tears are gems, 
Darting life, and light, and love, 

Reflecting in their beams, 
Living lustre from above. 

Oh, my child ! may all thy tears 
Be expressive of delight, 

As the azure of the spheres 
Makes the moon more silver bright ! 

May care thy gentle breast 
Ne'er with bitterness o'ertake, 

May it lightly on thee rest, 
As thy shadow on the lake ! 

May joy as mildly glisten 
In thine eye at every look ; 

As the tranquil air doth listen 
To the purl of yonder brook ! 

When noon shall pass beside thee, 
And thy parents are no more, 

Oh, may ev'ry good betide thee 
Culled from heav'n's richest store! 



TO MY DAUGHTER, 31 

But if the world shall press thee, 

Oh, seek not here for friends, 
'Tis heav'n alone can bless thee, 

And from heaven hope descends, 

And when this lay thou readest, 

And thy face shall flush with love, 
That the parent whom thou needest, 

Hath commended thee above, 

Oh, let remembrance borrow 

One rich tear, — I ask but this, 
Then pray that some bright morrow, 

We may meet again in bliss. 



32 



STANZAS, 



ADDRESSED TO A LADY, SUFFERING UNDER A RECENT 
LAMENTED BEREAVEMENT. 



If thy heart, in deep depression, 

Beats in tears, where joy should smile, 
If, in bitterest expression, 

Sorrow doth thy soul beguile, — 
Cast thine eye in prayer around thee, 

Is there one who knows not care ? 
Oh, rejoice, if friends surround thee, — 

Thank thy God that they are there. 

If thy children rise before thee, 

Clad in grace, in hope, in love, 
Smiling sweetly, bending o'er thee, 

Sent in mercy from above ; 
If the partner of thy sorrow 

All thy smiles, thy tears, would share, 
Wisdom from these blessings borrow, — 

Thank thy God that they are there. 



33 



Should our lives be lost in weeping ? 

Hath the world no charms contained ? 
"Waking thoughts, and dreams, when sleeping, 

Must they all be thus enchained ? 
Must the soul be spent in sighing, 

Deep'ning down to dark despair? 
All our hopes on earth destroying, 

All that heav'n has left us there ? 

Oh, how rich the blest emotion ! 

Pressing on to Christian joy, — 
Joy, which wrapp'd in deep devotion, 

Worlds themselves can ne'er alloy ; 
Let the soul, by hope expanded, 

On angel's wings our sorrows bear, 
To that bright realm, where, troubles ended, 

We rest in peace, for Christ is there. 

These lines were addressed to a lady, to whom the author thought that the 
very indulgence in the " luxury of grief," might become an amusement, 
for the time, and be one very humble means, with others, of rallying her 
from her sorrows ! But, alas ! within one short month, her eye was closed 
in death, and left her survivors to mourn a double bereavement. 



34 



PARAPHRASE 

ON THE FIFTY-FOURTH PSALM, VERSE SIXTH, 
Prayer Book Version. 

There is a heart-enlivening fire, 

That doubt can ne'er pourtray, 
The glowing warmth of pure desire, 

The spirit's kindling ray. 
There is a grief that glads the soul, 

In deep contrition's guise, 
Oh ! let me seek its mild controul, 

Its hopes shall fill mine eyes, 

Because it is so comfortable. 

The glittering scenes of vaunting pride, 

Ambition's tempting dreams, 
And wealth, where scowling serpents hide 

Their curse beneath its gleams ; 
The world, the flesh, the evil one, 

Shall sway my soul no more, 
But high upon the heavenly throne, 

Is He whom I adore, — 

Because it is so comfortable. 



PARAPHRASE. 35 



How beautiful the prospect there, 

Where sin can never reach, — 
How sweet the penitential prayer. 

Encumbered not by speech ! 
So rich the melody of praise 

That angels sing above, 
That e'en its cadences can raise 

The soul to heavenly love, — 

And it is so comfortable ! 



Why strive ye thus ? ye worldlings, why, 

For smiles that beam not joy, 
Can ye desert your hopes on high, 

And thus those hopes destroy ? 
While seeking these deludes to tears, 

Possession yields but care ! 
Then banish quick thy worldly fears, 

And clothe thy soul with pray'r ; 

Because it is so comfortable ! 



d 2 



36 PARAPHRASE. 

And clothe thy soul ! Oh, Lord, 'tis Thine, 

The Spirit to bestow, — 
To chasten in Thy love, and mine 

Beneath Thy will to bow ! 
'Tis Thine to show our helplessness, 

Without Thy help, Oh Lord ! 
Oh, give us strength in our distress, 

To know —to feel Thy word, 

Because it is so comfortable ! 



Teach us in heavenly grace to grow, 

To pray our fears away ; 
And debts of love so sweet to owe, 

How passing sweet to pay. 
Thus may we live, and thus depart, 

To Jesus then to flee ! 
The sole desire that rules our heart 

To be dissolved with Thee, — 

Because it is so comfortable ! 



37 



A HYMN. 



" In all time of our tribulation ; in all time of our wealth ; in the hour 
of death ; and in the day of judgment; — 

Good Lord deliver us !" 



The Litany, English Church Service. 



From thy bright mercy-seat of heaven, 

Oh, Lord, our pray'rs regard, 
And with thy influence enliven 

The workings of thy word. 
In time of peace, in time of strife, 

Of joy, or sad probation, 
Throughout this transitory life 

In time of tribulation, 

Good Lord deliver us ! 



38 



When placed 'mid worldly cares surrounding, 

Which choke* the seed the word has sown. 
Although, in mercy e'er abounding, 

Thou chast'nest us, in love alone. 
When honour, pow'r, and wealth shall vanish. 

And friends desert our lowly station, 
Oh, then do thou our grace replenish, 

And in the hour of tribulation, 

Good Lord deliver us ! 



The time of wealth, that time of danger, 

When modest fear to pride gives place, 
When man to his own heart a stranger, 

Each lurking weakness doth embrace ; 
And ne'er the blest escape desiresf 

Which thou hast given with each temptation, 
Oh, then, when every vice conspires, 

To swell that hour of tribulation, 

Good Lord deliver us ! 



* Luke viii. v. 14. + 1 Cor. x. v. 13. 



39 



And when, in sickness lowly lying, 

The rod of mercy chast'ning sore, 
And worldly joys, unsatisfying, 

Yield their vain delights no more ! 
Lord ! at the awful hour of death, 

Hear thou my dying supplication ! 
Oh, turn to pray'r each gasping breath ; — 

In this, the time of tribulation, 

Good Lord deliver us ! 



When thy last judgment is decided 

And one is taken, — one is left ; — * 
The goats are from the sheep divided,t 

And sons are of their sires bereft ! — 
When thy Almighty voice is heard, 

By every man and every nation, 
Turn not to us the flaming sword, 

But in this hour of tribulation, 

Good Lord deliver us I 
Amen. 

* Matt. xxiv. v. 40. t Matt, xxv. v. 33. 



40 



PETER'S TEARS. 

Luke xxii. v 61. 



He looked ! and do I live to tell 

The volume in that look contained ? 
He looked ! that glance has cast a spell 

In ■which my spirits are enchained. 
Oh, let me weep ! till my sad tears, 

Through grace shall wash my sins away ; 
Till hopes supplant my inward fears, — 

Till once, once more, my soul can pray. 

That eye which could but did not chide, 

How mildly, meekly, beamed its love ! 
Just as the moon at eventide, 

Illumines the expanse above. 
Oh, much more did that eye express ; 

It told of voluntary grief, 
The willing spirit's deep distress, 

And borne by Him for our relief. 



peter's tears. 41 

It told me of a Father's care, 

It told of stripes, of piercing thorns, 
Of what a God for man could bear, 

It told me how a Saviour mourns : 
It spoke of solitary tears, 

Of sadness in Gethsemane, 
Of sleeping friends, and watchful prayers, 

Of plighted faith and treachery ! 

Oh weep, my soul ! and cast thy cares 

On Him alone who cares for thee, 
He sees thy sorrows, knows thy fears, — 

To Him then in thy misery flee. 
Yet weep ! in flowing penitence, 

"Weep in hope, and weep in prayer, 
Till heav'nly love shall bear thee hence, 

And thou shalt meet thy Saviour there ! 



42 



CHRISTIAN PROGRESS. 

;t While I was musing, the fire kindled."— Psalm xxxix. v. 4. 



VANITY OF EARTHLY THINGS. 

And yet not happy ! though the world is bright, 

Though time's smooth current laves th' inviting shore, 
Though fortune's smiles entice with dazzling light, 

And earth has not that I can yearn for more. 
Thankless, I breathe but glittering despair, 

While doubt and gloom, too urgent, press my soul, 
And my worn heart can find no solace there, 

Where wealth and honours hold supreme controul. 



And why no joy ? whence is it hope decays ? 

E'en envy crouches at my high behest ; — 
Alas ! hast seen a grinning demon gaze, 

Or watched the sun-beam on the whirlpool's breast? 



CHRISTIAN PROGRESS. 43 

Death, e'en in health, may rankle in my frame — 
Why tremblest thou, my soul? the dawn appears ! — 

The dawn ! alas, 'twas but a meteor flame, 
Mocking my conscience with foreboding fears. 



'Tis said the worst eternity begins 

E'en this world, that the unhallowed fire 
Emits its pois'nous incense in our sins, 

And cloys, with " hope deferred," each vile desire. 
I hate thee, sin ! I loathe thy silvery chain, 

The melody of angels be my choice, 
Whose radiant notes pour light into the brain, — 

That I might hear once more that thrilling voice ! 

MUSING, — THE FIRE KINDLED. 

Alas ! my life : I flee the base controul, 

That from my inmost self myself concealed, 
It palls the midnight of my shivering soul 

W r ith the dark blaze of sinfulness revealed, 
" Save me, or I perish !" — " hear my cry !" 

" Seek, and ye shall find " the blest relief: 
Come, holy light, that soothes my agony, 

" Lord, I believe ! help thou my unbelief!" 



44 CHRISTIAN PROGRESS. 

REDEEMING MERCY. 

Lo ! where yon orient beams of living gold 

Illume with truth th' expanding atmosphere ; 
Successive moments mercies new unfold, 

And joy forgets its anguish, — hope its fear. 
Mark, how they tell the soul of Eden's fall, 

Of lonely grief, of gushing agony, 
Of thorns, of mockings, of the cross, of all, 

That saved our fallen souls on Calvary. 

SANCTIFIED JOY. 

Hail, then, Celestial Star, sent, Lord, by Thee I 

Hail prayer, and praise, and faith, and holy love ? 
When shall my soul to sight and glory flee, 

Mingling Hosannas round Thy throne above ? 
Lord ! in thine own appointed time be mine, 

Unto my soul Thy bright'ning grace accord, 
Oh, sanctify my hopes, my heart incline, 

To Thee, Creator, Advocate, and Lord ! 

None can reasonably object to the English Prayer Book version of the 
Psalms, since they were thus translated by William Tindal and Miles 
Coverdale, and revised by Archbishop Cranmer. 



45 



JAIRTTS' DAUGHTER. 



TAL1THA CTJMI. 



"Who is he that appears o'erwhelmed by tears, 

Pale and with streaming hair, 
And in agony crying, " My daughter is dying, 

" Oh, save me, Lord, from despair !" 
" Thou spendest thy breath, for thy daughter's death 

" Is certain," his kindred cried, — 
" Believe," said the Lord, and with this word, 

" Thy daughter shall live," he replied, 

The Master divine bid him grief to resign, — 

" "Whence all this ado !" he exclaimed ; 
" The maid is not dead, but she sleepeth," he said,— 

'Twas at this the parent aimed. 
Oh, ye whoe'er strove with a father's love, 

An only child to save, 
Can feel the relief to a parent's grief, 

Of its rescue from the grave. 



46 JAIRUS' DAUGHTER. 

" Ha! ha !" cried the fools of Satan's dark schools, 

And they laughed in ferocious disdain ; 
" 'Tis mightily brave a dead maiden to save," 

And they scornfully laughed again. 
These were a few of the desperate crew 

"Who insulted the Saviour of men, 
That in Calvary's scene burnt with bitterest spleen, 

For alas, they were foremost then ! 

The Saviour unmoved by the sinners he loved, 

Though the sin he could not but despise, 
To reward the belief of Jairus in grief, 

Cried " Maiden, awake ! arise !" 
Oh, rapture ! the maid now arose from the dead, 

The child could her parent embrace, 
And the parent his child, and the men who reviled, 

Slunk in sullen dismay from the place. 



47 



REGENERATION, 



Christian Believer ! whosoe'er thou art, 

Is Christ thy treasure, heaven thy sure defence ? 
Hast thou within a rising, hoping heart, 

Absorbed with one delightful influence ? 
Are all things here but loss, all else thy gain,— - 

Dost know that He thy sins can expiate ? 
If not, — thou ne'er can'st heav'nly bliss attain, 

If not, — thou art not yet regenerate ! 



Regeneration, like the breath of heaven, 

Soothes the parched soul, with gentle od'rous breeze ; 
To be regenerate is to be forgiven, 

Its fears are hopes, its hopes realities ; 
It is to feel the upward heart of love 

Ascend like incense to the heav'nly throne. 
It is to place our joys and cares above, 

It is to feel that Christ is all our own. 



48 REGENERATION. 

It is a holy confidence of soul 

Which knows, not thinks, that its Redeemer lives, 
With which the sinner trembles to extol 

His Maker's love, that chastens but forgives. 
It is the bright illuminating ray, 

Rushing in mercy from a source divine, 
Through worldly mists upon the form of clay, 

And teaching it with Christian light to shine. 

And what are earth's best treasures, what its cares ? 

And what can all its promises afford ?' 
Can they give faith, or love, or hopes, or pray'rs ? 

A heavenly Father ? — or a dying Lord ? 
Can they the terrors of the dark dispel ? 

Or wrap the heart in soft'ning heav'nly peace ? 
Or 'midst our griefs a tale of mercy tell? 

Or from the conscience its forebodings chase ? 

Oh no ! there is no peace, there is no home, 

There is no hope, but in thy help, Oh, God ! 
Oh, make me thine, though all else be but gloom, 

Oh, be thou mine ! e'en thro' the chast'ning rod ! 
And quick renew the spirit of my mind, 

That I to sin no more may be enslav'd, 
Oh let me thy redeeming influence find, 

To be adopted, sanctified, and sav'd. 



49 



THE DAY-SPRING FROM ON HIGH. 

Luke, chap. i. ver. 78. 



Tho' plenty, and health, and fame abound, 

And more than the earth can give, 
Tho' pleasure may travel its daily round, 

And even our hopes outlive ; 
Can blessings like these, to a soul depressed, 

A comforting moment supply ? 
Can they cheer the sad heart, at the heart's behest, 

Like " the Day-spring from on high!" 

The Day-spring beams when grief, at its height, 

Hath poured out its spirit in prayer, 
"When it seeks from above that heavenly light, 

And hopes to meet with it there. 
Look up, thou forlorn one, riven in heart, 

Who no solace on earth can espy, 
Look up, for heaven can hope impart 

In " the Day-spring from on high !" 



50 THE DAY-SPRING. 

Whence is it, though foremost in. folly's career, 

Some spirit has beckon' d me hence ? 
'Twas the moment when faith, and hope, and fear, 

Did in one tear condense. 
What shone through my soul while the dazzling light 

Caus'd many an upward sigh? 
'Twas a ray from heaven ! the radiant light 

Of " the Day-spring from on high !" 

It bright'ns the soul when at solitude's height, 

We feel of the world bereft, 
When quietly dwelling in shades of night, 

And only the nightingale left ! 
Oh, how exquisite then, when the soul, in its zeal, 

Can hast'n with joy to comply 
With the heav'nly call, the spirit's appeal, 

In " the Day-spring from on high !" 

Oh, that one ray from the light above, 

My eager soul could bless ! 
To show me the splendour of heav'nly love, 

And my own unworthiness ! 
Oh, that this gleam could light up my soul, 

Earth's nothingness to descry, 
That nought could my hopes and my cares controul, 

Save " the Day-spring from on high !" 



51 



IMMORTALITY, 



Is Immoetality the awful theme ? 
Where Earth becomes a vapour, Life a dream ! 
Worlds are forgotten specks, and Time a breath, 
And all that breath' d have pass'd the bounds of death ; 
Where is no height, nor depth, the vast expanse 
Is measureless ! for ever to advance 
Is to proceed no farther ; — ages past 
Are but the instant, — sunk in endless waste. 
All things are chang'd, all are for ever lost ; 
Poverty's sad plaint, and the proud tyrant's boast, 
And riches, honour, birth, and empty fame, 
Lose e'en the ashes of their earthly frame ; 
Material being is nought ; and, oh, ye proud ! 
How baseless is your formal wasted shroud ! 
The earthly clod which once the form enclos'd, 
Thy nothingness has long, long since expos'd ; 
e 2 



52 IMMORTALITY. 

All, all have vanish.' d, ne'er to be again, 

As shadows, wrapt in darkness' sweeping train ; 

All, save the Spirit hidden in the breast, 

And Him who gave it, for the moment's guest, 

In whom all endeth, all hath e'er begun, 

Night's sable reign, and day's resplendent sun, 

And chance, and fate, and every passing hour, 

The infant's weakness, and the giant's power, 

The tempest's gurgle, and the rending flash, 

The crater's heavings, and the earthquake's crash, 

And Life, and Death, and Judgment, Heaven and Hell, 

And endless woes, and joys tongue ne'er could tell, 
And all our hopes of that bright realm of light, 

Where grace is merg'd in glory, faith in sight ! 

And there to be immortal ! there to reign, 
Blest without merit, wash'd of every stain ; — 

And this is all we know ! Presumptuous man, 

"Who dares Creation's destiny to scan, 

Beyond what revelation doth explain 

Eternal Justice willeth to ordain. 

To write on that above which passeth show, 

And e'en defies conception's richest glow ; 

Which man may dream of, but which man ne'er knows, 

And fancies, merely, when the eyelids close, 

Burden'd with tears of penitence and grief, 

And inward sighings for renewed belief; 



IMMORTALITY. 54 

Feeling the threshold of the sacred porch, 
Lit by the Spirit's love-inflaming torch, 
Ent'ring to Immortality ! — the bliss within 
Is hidden by man's foe, the Demon — Sin, — 
Whom conquer' d c back the willing portals fly, 
Man lusing e'en the memory of a sigh. 



54 



PARAPHRASE. 



" But they that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength ; they 
shall mount up with wings as eagles ; they shall run and not be weary, 
and they shall walk and not faint." 

Isaiah, chap. 40, ver. 31. 



Ah, when shall glow that heav'nly rest, 
That light that blesses e'en the blest, 

And comforts poor and meek ? 
When shall my life with joy expand, 
Exalted in that blessed land, 

Whose shade does bliss bespeak ? 

Mourn not, my soul : but on the wing 
As eagles mount, approach thy King, 

His help, His strength, is thine : 
Illumined by the tranquil light 
That beams on those whose hopes are bright, 

Thy faith, thy prayers, shall shine. 



PARAPHRASE. 55 

Ah, faith and pray'r, the gates of heav'n, 
Unclose to all who here have striv'n, 

Though narrow be their way ; 
They faint not, strengthen' d while they wait, 
And cheered in e'en their worst estate, 

By heav'n's endless day. 



56 



PARAPHRASE. 

Isaiah, chap. ( 



Look to me, Lord ! for poor indeed, 
And burdened sore with debt am I, 

With nought to pay ; Oh Lord, make speed, 

Do thou, Oh, Saviour intercede, 
And from thy radiant throne on high, 
Look to me Lord ! 

Look to me Lord ! I come to thee ; 

Thee only dar'd I to offend ; 
Unto thy mercy now I flee, 
From sin's devouring mystery, 

My Maker, Father, Saviour, Friend ! 
Look to me Lord ! 

Look to me, Lord ! I feel thy hand, 
And trembling venture forth once more ; 

Supported by thy strength, I stand ! 

Oh lead me to the promised land, 
And till I reach the blessed shore, 
Look to me Lord ! 



57 



THE LORD'S PRAYER VERSIFIED. 



Our Father who in heaven art, 

Hallowed be thy name ! 
Thy kingdom, Lord, oh, quick impart, 

In spiritual flame ! 

When earthly joys to pains give birth, 
When we to grief are driven, — 

May then thy will be done on earth, 
As it is done in heaven ! 

Give us. oh, Father, day by day, 
Our daily bread, and grant 

That thy parental pardon may 
Our daily sins supplant! 

As we forgive, so us forgive, 
And from temptation's ways 

Oh, lead us, Lord 1 and to us give 
Thy guard on evil days, Amen. 



58 

A FRAGMENT. 

"Whene'er the mind, judiciously controul'd, 
Shall from its depths the choicest thoughts unfold, 
Whene'er the soul in meditation wrapp'd, 
Shall from its earthly trammels have escap'd, 
And when the feelings by religion curb'd 
Shall not by nether interests be disturb' d, 
The judgment pure, the heart by care unriv'n, 
Far above worlds, and looking round on heav'n, 
Anxious, by rigid principles of right, 
Rigid but mild conclusions to excite ; 
Oh, then how heav'nly nature's form appears, 
How soon doth sadness dry its transient tears, 
And joy, not sorrow, fills the live-long day, 
The passions now no venom can display ; 
Now envy hides his bitter scowling glance, 
Jealousy now sheathes his pois'nous lance, 
Pride doth no more eclipsing power assume, 
But mild forbearance doth the earth illume ; 
Meekness and love exert their soft'ning power, 
To fill with joy each swiftly passing hour ; 
Rapacious avarice, ambition's rust, 
Possession's dregs, self's vain abortive trust, 
Shall vanish, and their being shall scatter' d be, 
As snow flakes in the all absorbing sea ! 



The Author intreats the indulgence of his 
Readers for the lines in the following pages, which 
are composed " in Ercles' vein," and which may 
be considered by them inappropriate after the 
the solemn subjects already introduced. 



61 



THE VALE OF OVOCA. 



Thrice happy vale ! Ovoca's famed retreat, 
Where loves the muse the poet's lyre to tune, 
Methinks a seraph on thy meads might dwell, 
In bliss luxuriant, nor yearn for more. 
Soft blooms the modest shamrock on the plain, 
And graceful birch, tall ash, arbutus mild, 
Fanning the echoes in their sylvan dreams, 
With varied verdure smile the winter o'er. 
Here bounteous nature seeks not culture's aid, 
But lives in sun-beams floating in the dew ; 
Here genial odours breathe their brightest rays, 
Mantle in blushes green the velvet glade, 
And clothe with beauty the enchanting scene. 
Bold Avonmore's hoarse torrent flows subdued, 
And Avonbeg meets yielding at thy feet, 
To blend in tribute to thy loveliness. 
Loud Augrim rushing o'er its stony bed 
Like both in chorus whirls its fretful course, 



62 VALE OF OVOCA. 

O'er rock and crag, o'er precipice and pass, 

Affrighting, with its roar, the silent glen, — 

To warbling sooth' d, now joins the currents smooth, 

Whose waters, ne'er to sever, mingling meet, 

In rippling smiles of soft unruffled light. 

How the air listens, as the triune stream 
Serenely winds its glad harmonious way ! 
Softly, ye Zephyrs, hear the whisp'ring strain, 
Breathe through the light in dulcet melody, 

Spirit of song, sweet harbinger of hope, 
Touch thou the chord that wins the troubled soul ! 
Genius of beauty in thy native home, 
Whose varied guise we through the land have traced, 
Thou glad'st the heart : oh, captivate the mind ! 
Angel of peace who here dost refuge take, 
To wave thy sceptre on a crystal throne, 
To lasting unison, oh, sway the land ! 
So may her sons in heart and will unite, 
Like the three currents join in concord's path, 
And o'er the ocean bear their fearless way ! 



63 



I AM A SINGLE MAN. 



What ! yield up joys like those I now enjoy, 

To be a patriarchal sober steady cit ! 
And leave the smiles, the killing smiles, my boy, 

"Which ladies on their cheeks so well can fit. 
To have no more a pretty watch guard here, — 

Nor there a netted ribbon to trepan ; — 
Given with such an arch- angelic leer, — 

Kind Heaven ! my thanks ! — I am a single man ! 

And tho' I lose the hourly converse sweet, 

Of spouse — 'yclept. " The Young man's Bosom Friend,' 
And tho* my lips with constancy ne'er meet, — 

Variety with constancy can't blend : 
'Tis sweet, I own, to lodge in female hearts, 

'Tis sweet domestic happiness to plan ! 
'Tis sweet — but I want none of Cupid's darts, 

Or Hymen's joys ! — I'll be a single man ! 



64 I AM A SINGLE MAN. 

What bliss to live in matrimonial gravity, 

To say "my dear," as if we meant " my devil !" 
Afraid to look at others with suavity, 

For fear of jealousy or some such evil. 
How happy must he be whom Bacchus' blisses 

Intice as if his marriage were his ban, 
If Hymen's real picture be as this is, 

Again, thank Heaven, I'm a single man ! 

Now, on " my mistress' eye brow," I may prose, 

And rack the vast Olympus for analogies, 
May call her eyes, "the stars," " Mont Blanc," her nose, 

And e'en on that write some poetic elogies. — 
In short, improbability and fiction 

Howe'er preposterous, I may dauntless scan, 
Without a fear or hope of contradiction, 

Then shall I not remain — a single man r 



65 



STANZAS TO M- 



Lady ! I loved you all last year, 

So honestly and well ; 
Alas ! 'twould weary you to hear, 

And torture me to tell. 
I rav'd beneath the midnight skies, 

I sang beneath the limes, 
Orlando in my lunacies, 

And Petrarch in my rhymes. 
But all is over ! when the sun 

Dries up the boundless main, 
When black is white, false-hearted one 

I may be yours again ! 

When you can see the Elfin train, 
Ride on the moonbeams bright, 

When you can bind with serial chain 
The lightning's flash by night. 



66 STANZAS. 

When you can weave a sunny ray 

Into an earthly veil, 
When you can hear the violet grow, 

Or ram convert to hail ; 
When you the lark shall teach to sing, 

In scientific strain, 
When Cupids dance the Highland fling, 

Why then I'll love again. 

When yonder radiant silver moon, 

The sun's bright rays refuses, 
And when the nightmare (grinning fiend ! ) 

Goes romping with the muses ; 
When you can tune the broken lute, 

Or bind the sever'd wreath, 
When you can rear the wither' d fruit, 

Upon the blasted heath ; 
When love and constancy in love, 

In woman's breast shall reign, 
When earth's joys rival joys above, 

I may be yours again. 

The first verse is anonymous. 



67 



LAMENT OF THE SPIRIT OF THE WYE.* 

On the rocky steep she stood, 
Welcome storms, and welcome flood ! 
There alone she loved to dwell, — 
There where gallant Hubert fell ; 
Through the night of sable hue, 
Fancy plac'd him still in view. 

Oft she sigh'd with vacant stare, 
Lightnings cleave the troubled air, 
Echo ! join the thunders' roar ! 
Burst, my heart, and brave its power ! 
Winds that howl with fearful din, 
Rival not the storm within. 

Brilliant eye, and raven hair, 
Form erect, and brow so fair, 
Round my heart his mem'ry clings, 
Pangs to sooth my grief it brings ; 
Fond I clasp the crimson stain, 
Hubert's name I breathe in vain ! 

* These verses are merely an allusion to a popular legend of the 
"Wye, near the Hay, Brecknockshire. 

2 P 



68 LAMENT OF THE SPIRIT OF THE WYE. 

Plash the oar ! the chatt'ring falls 
Mock the torrent's madrigals ; 
Rocks that heard the whisper' d strain, 
Loudly to the night complain ; 
Here he vow'd; and here he fell, 
"Won by treach'ry's dastard spell. 

Mine the reckless traitor's part ; 
Weep, oh, weep, my bursting heart ! 
Welcome, anguish — welcome woe ! 
Tears of rich affliction flow ; 
Won by treach'ry's dastard spell 
Here he vow'd, and here he fell ! 



69 



THE VILLAGE OF 



IN BEECK.NO CKSHIRE. 



On a bank where the river flows soft at its feet, 

The village I view'd on the rise ; 
And I look'd on its balmy and peaceful retreat, 

As it gather' d its tints from the skies. 
"Oh, surely," I said, " here contentment and love 

Must fall in the dew-drops from heav'n, 
Oh, surely, if happiness e'er beams above, 

To thy lot must the blessings be giv'n." 

But, alas, I inquir'd, and how sad the reverse, 

The blessings received as a right ! 
It seemed as if man would have sought for the curse, 

Which did on his bosom alight. 
The earth teems with plenty, how brilliant the scene ! 

And fragrance to welcome the sense ! 
There envy sits urg'd by pale hatred and spleen 

To revenge on the slightest pretence. 



70 THE VILLAGE OF . 

There, cow'ring beneath, all the tints that display, 

The beauties, the bounties of peace, 
Brood avarice, slander, and pride, in its way, 

All the riches of love to debase. 
With regret from the sick'ning thought did I turn, 

And upward my heart bent a prayer ; — 
I felt that if love in our bosoms would burn, 

It would meet with its recompense there 



71 



STANZAS FOR MUSIC. 



I saw an infant sleeping, 

And gazed upon the boy ; 
How bliss is marr'd by weeping, 

How tears succeed to joy ! 
Each hope the world beguiling, 

By its attendant sigh, 
I saw the babe was smiling, 

Though the tear was in his eye ! 

The child became a lover, 

When years passed o'er his head : 
He called on all above her, 

To witness what he said. 
He woo'd, — he won, — dispelling 

All his fears in one bright sigh, 
His heart with joy was swelling, 

Though the tear was in his eye ! 



72 STANZAS FOR MUSIC. 

Each happy day returning 

He nought but joy espied ; 
And never thought of mouming,- 

But one sad day she died ! 
He could but weep and languish 

He spoke but in a sigh, 
Oh, who can paint his anguish, 

"While the tear was in his eye ! 



73 



IMPROMPTU. 



How sweet 'tis to ramble tb.ro' fields of ripe daisies, 
To catch tbe soft sigb breatb'd by zephyrs so light ; 

And sweet 'tis to soar where the God of all praise is, 
When solace we seek from oppression or slight ! 

But to me who love deeply (alas ! hoio requited ! 

For Fortune has filled me of grief a full cup !) 
How sweet 'tis, when serial songsters, united, 

In emulous harmony, chirup " Cheer up." 



74 



LINES 

FOR THE FIRST PAGE OF A LADY'S ALBUM. 



Kind Reader ! ere thou passest by, 

One little classic moment spare, 
And should these pages please thine eye, 

Oh, deign our friendly costs to share. 
'Tis but a bouquet — kindly chosen, 

For Friendship, not intrinsic power, 
And ne'er by criticism frozen, 

But cherish' d in the Muses' bower. 

The tulip's loveliness we prize, 

The fragrance of the blushing rose, 
Each flow'r its natural grace supplies, 

Which freely from its bosom flows. 
But should a flow'r thine eye perceive, 

Which there thou would' st not wish to see, 
Or should thy hand a thorn receive, 

Indeed it ne'er was meant for thee ! 



LINES FOR A LADY S ALBUM. 

We chose it, gaily, gladly chose, 

And skipp'd the verdant mead along, 
The world we dar'd ! (our courage grows 

When dwelling kindly flow'rs among !) 
Oh, how they wav'd their wanton heads 

Which grac'd the sinuous lengthen' d walks ! 
They seem'd to leap from earthy beds, 

And quit with joy the parent stalks ! 

And see them here ! how sweetly meek I 

The humble daisy ranks not high, 
But doth an useful truth bespeak, 

If seen with charitable eye. 
Can art or science, wealth or power, 

E'en such a plant as this e'er form ? 
No, no ; despise, not then the flower, 

Which strikes e'en pride with just alarm. 

But give thy mite— thy entrance pay, 

Nay not a payment, but a boon, 
A small donation, stranger, pray ! 

Thou canst not yield thy alms too soon. 
And mine the first ! — my thanks, dear friend, 

I haste with joy, and add my pray'rs 
That blessings may thy life attend, 

The world's best joys—without its cares I 



75 



76 



STANZAS 



TO A LADY ON HER PRESENTING THE AUTHOR WITH 
KNITTED PURSE, ON THE EVE OF HER MARRIAGE. 



Beams there above a magic ray so bright, 

As to the world thy value shall display ? 
Is there effulgence in the realms of light 

Can all thy worth to every eye pourtray ? 
Oh, no, it is not in the blaze of day, 

That inbredjnental loveliness is seen, 
But oft in struggling thro' life's thorny way, 

'Tis soft'ning friendship in the dreary scene, 
Converts the gloom to brilliancy, enliv'ning and serene. 

Friendship is not in dazzling acts of grace 

Producing wonder in the gazing throng, 
Like charity, the foremost in the race 

Needs not be best, though loudest be his song ; 
'Tis to the feeling that the sweets belong, 

Which mellow life though not producing much ; 
'Tis when the weakest feels himself most strong, 

By the solicitude, the tender touch, 
Evinc'd by friends alone, and only known to such. 



77 



I plac'd more value on thy silken purse, 

Than all that could be in it, — even gold, 
Gather' d in heaps, becomes the miser's curse, 

"While all around is listless, dull and cold ; 
I would not have it, e'en though it controul'd 

The earth from chilling east to welcome west, 
And satraps drew my chariot as it roll'd 

O'er Indus' mines, and glitt'ring were my crest, 
And wealth and pow'r were good, and miaeth' unrivall'dbest. 



I would not have it for my own behoof! 

It nothing adds to all the heart can love ; 
No, from all else I fain would keep aloof, 

But thee, and such as thou, and heav'n above. 
'Tis such that to the weary wand'rer prove 

The sweet endearments life can often yield ; 
And silken bands their rapt'rous hours move, 

Bound by the golden ring, the ample shield, 
And realize our hopes, — our inmost wounds have healed. 



78 



Yet there are trials in that happy state 

To which thou art auspiciously progressing ; — 
Oh, may they teach thee, with thy heart elate, 

To value them with every other blessing ; 
For moments follow when the kind caressing 

Of pledg'd affection more than all repays, 
With rising smiles th' intruding tear suppressing, 

When hearts to heaven exultingly upraise, 
Who would not deeply sigh for moments such as these. 



"When first I knew thee Time itself smil'd young ; 

I little thought his car so swift was wheeling, 
Although the hours seemed to "whirl along, 

And every moment to our fears appealing ; 
Time lias e'er since been busy in revealing, 

What I would have it ever to disclose, 
The influence thou in hearts art gently stealing, 

As fragrance lights upon the new-blown rose, 
And there in native loveliness its sweets inclose. 



70 



And may that Time, ere slowly it may linger 

Waiting for thee, and seeking thy last breath, 
Point to a haven with a radiant ringer, 

Where happiness shall be thy scene of death ! 
Oh, may he ne'er his fatal scythe unsheath, 

That thou from earth shalt ruthlessly be riv'n ; 
Oh, may thy pillow be a roseate wreath, 

And smiles and blessings all thy path enliv'n, 
And friends abound on earth, and endless joys in heav'n ! 



80 



LINES 



TO A LADY, ON HER PRESENTING THE AUTHOR WITH A 
" COMFORTER." 



Lady ! I thank thee for thy precious gift, 

Appropriate emblem of the kindliest thought, 
Thought that on high will my best feelings lift, — 

Grateful contagion hath my bosom caught ; 
A Comforter ! how soothing is the word ! 

How much, alas ! doth man its help require ! 
With it, he can with all life's ills accord, 

Without — how soon doth even pleasure tire ! 

A Comforter ! and who so kind to man, 

As one like thee, who minist'ring to woe, 
Warms like the morning sun, ere yet its span 

Refreshing dews absorbs from flow'rs below. 
Lady ! I thank thee for thy precious gift, 

Appropriate emblem of the kindliest thought, 
Of friendship's warmth, my heart is ne'er bereft, 

And time its influence cannot, shall not thwart. 



81 



STANZAS ADDRESSED TO 



Oh ! one there is, whose accents sweet 

To hearts embarrass' d comfort yield, 
And bid the voice of Hope repeat, 

That Heav'n's our best — our safest shield. 
Whose warnings, in life's treach'rous snares, 

Did virtue, love, and wisdom blend ; 
Oh ! I exult, 'midst all my cares, 

In gratitude to thee — my friend. 

And, smiling, when my heart was riven, 

Not as the worldlings smile — oh, no ! 
But with a radiance sent from heaven, 

To minister a balm for woe, — 
How sweetly would she gently chide, 

And hope for better days for me ! 
Oh, there was no one friend beside 

Did this, dear lady, none but thee! 



82 STANZAS ADDRESSED TO — 

And may I, — dare I, say I love ? 

My heart though, full, is not content ! 
I see thy lips are slow to move, 

Then let thy silence give consent. — 
Still silent ! — rapture fills my breast, 

"World ! I defy thy keenest darts ! 
Be still my soul ! I now am blest, 
With joys which love alone imparts. 



83 



STANZAS ADDRESSED TO 



THREE YEARS AFTER. 



Eolian breathings faintly trembling, 

'Mid the soft whisperings of heav'n, 
Are types of love's first hopes, — resembling 

Their contests, when to doubtings driven. 
But the loud swells of harmony, 

The chords of union sweetly playing, 
Raise the fond breast to ecstacy, 

No pow'r on earth such bliss allaying. 

I hoped 'twas thus, when Love alone 

Could think thee without guile e'er tainted,- 
But now I feel thou'rt all my own, 

Just what fancy fondly painted. 
Not form alone -hath made thee mine, 

Not the cold vow of fealty given ; 
Love doth our hearts so closely twine, 

Both must be whole, or both be riven ! 
g 2 



84 STANZAS ADDRESSED TO . 

The tendrils in the florist's care, 

Entwin'd, each does the other cherish, 
Dissolve the tie, and in despair 

Both being bereav'd, they both must perish. 
And Providence, who smiles above us, 

Ordains we, like those plants must wither, — 
Eut when from earth he wills to move us, 

Oh ! may we fall like them — together. 



85 



FRIENDSHIP. 



What is Friendship ? but a name ! 

So says the world, so writes the bard ; 
'Tis but an evanescent flame, 

Which scenes around us soon retard. 
'Tis but the fancied Pythian pulse, 

That beat in fiction's history, 
Too soon does self the fire repulse, 

And crush the flitting mystery. 

Must conqu'ring love, which blanch' d my cheek, 

And once my willing mind o'ercame, 
Resistless impulses bespeak, 

Yet live but in an empty name ! 
Alas ! those tears were soothing show'rs, 

Not storms which come but to depart, 
No ! no, the giant ekes his pow'rs, 

The clouds had gather' d in my heart. 



86 FRIENDSHIP. 

These chords which vibrate in my breast, 

And hours of sadness oft enliven, 
Their soft'ning influence most attest, 

Conceal' d as life concealeth heaven ! 
The world meets friendship in collision, 

'Tis Fate's imperious decree, 
The first I hold in deep derision, 

The last I e'er would feel for thee ? 



87 



BLACK-PUDDINGS. 



Ascend, ye Nine ! ascend with radiant wings, 
Than snow more filmy. As each damsel springs 
From this round heap of mud, in eager haste, 
Remember we have that for your pure taste, 
Which muse ne'er dreamt of ! Halt, my trembling quill, 
And rest thy gentle oozings ! stars, be still ! 
Ye who in twinkling coyness constant blink, — 
In wan despair back to your haloes shrink ! 
Systems avaunt ! such food sublime 
Shall grace my rich and varied rhyme, 

As never mortals tasted, 

Such food as cooks ne'er basted ! 

Drowsy Endymion awake, 

And of poetic joys partake ! 
Sad, sad Heraclitus ! pray leave off brooding, 
List to the raptures urg'd by rich black -pudding, 

Until it plain shall seem 

Black-pudding is my theme ! — 

Black-pudding then ; now rest again, 

My feeble, yet aspiring pen ; 



OO BLACK-PUDDINGS, 

And now take flight, thy swift transition 

Is to a homely composition. 

Clotted gore, and skin of jet, 

"With curly ends all decorate, 

And garnish' d rich with herbs and fat. 

Meal so white, now thick and ruddy, 

Soft and tasty, quite a study, 

The mass with attic salt engender, 

Oh, what on earth can eat more tender ? 
Pope's eyes for dinner, and rich bishop after, 
The first with gout, and both with quaking laughter. 
Nought can the dainty epicure adore, 
Like the thick flavour of the juice of boar ! 

I loved! oh, she was passing fair, 
Ivory brow and raven hair, 
Crimson lips and azure eye, 
Music in her fragrant sigh ; 
Language meek, and firm her mind, 
Knowledge deep yet most refin'd, 
As she tripp'd the velvet glade, 
How I lov'd the heav'nly maid ! — 
I lov'd her, — not for crimson lips, 
Her angel form did these eclipse, 
Nor for her bright transparent brow, 
Nor e'en her cheeks' impressive glow, 



BLACK-PUDDINGS. 89 



But she black-puddings lov'd. Indeed 
'Twas this that eaus'd my heart to bleed. 
And she possess' d a fragrant sty, 
-Not, gentle reader, in her eye L 
But pigs she rear'd ! oh, wild Niagara ! 
Could thy lofty falls so stagger her, 
As did that awful thunder crash, 
When Hodge let fall the pail of wash ? 
Wash ! dulcet sound ! patrician breeding 
Ne'er could boast such splendid feeding. 
Varied superfluities, 
Scullion incongruities, 
The pools of wash abound, 
Let the loud grunt resound ; 
Till by degrees pigs great and small, 
Gently splash 
The greasy wash, 
And swallow acorns, filth, and all ! 
Whene'er the porker lunches, 
And heaps of acorns crunches, 
How quails the embryo oak 
Beneath the sturdy stroke ! 
And vessels never destin'd to be freighted 
Distill' d into black-puddings now are fated. 
Great Jove who the Olympus shook, 
Ne'er had seen the gory brook, — 



90 BLACK-PUDDINGS. 

Well may they say the world has slumber' d 
The many thousand years we've number'd ; 

Even at Alexander's feast, 

"We trace no records of the beast ; 

Alas, the happy, happy pair, 

That made their first appearance there ! 

Their fond delights were incomplete, 

Without black-puddings there to eat. 
Pygmalion ne'er Sichaeus could have kill'd 
If only porcine blood had there been spill' d. 
The Tyrian queen 
Had lost her spleen, 
Had this, like Runic charms, her murmurs still' d. 
When Richard's troops their master's ensign bore, 

Before ten thousand mail-clad men, 

Richard was himself again ; 
In martial eagerness up went the boar ; 

They did not kill a pig that day 

Before they march' d in dread array ; 

No black-pudding there was eaten, 

So poor Richard, he was beaten ! 

The roses mingl'd and their perfume shed, 
Sweet on the downfal of the rooting head, 
Whose rise should be no more ! 'twas not the blood 
Of Lancaster henceforth should be the food 



BLACK-PUDDINGS. 91 

Of crowded and enquiring stomachs ! but within 

A shroud of shining fat, Nemasan skin, 

Successively repeated, puddings teem, 

Prom the vast empire of their unctuous steam ; 

While sucking infant pigs can rule the roast, 

Made stout with herbs, the culinary boast ; 

The grown-up pigs their lot have ne'er mistaken, 

They never have the luck to save their bacon. 

The honour' d pig who meets the pudding fate, 

Is passing rich with forty pounds in weight. 

Oh, think, ye gourmands, as ye hungry gloat 

With feeding eyes, and fond remorseless throat, 

Upon the savoury concrete of rich food, 

Form'd of white fat, brown meal and crimson flood, 

Of yonder prancing porker ! in your conscience think, 

Of fleets that all your ruthless mouthfuls sink, 

Into the gulph of aching appetite, 

There buried ever out of human sight ; 

And as ye dwell in pity on the end, 

The cruel fate which doth that pig attend, 

When next black-puddings greet your greedy eyes, 

The blood, the pail, the knife, the piercing cries, 

Remember ! see the butcher holds the head, — 

Now weave the cypress wreath, — the pig is dead ! 

But yet observe, with pleasures on thy tongue, 

Those pleasures that to palates keen belong, 

Hot dews that glisten, hints of well-mixed spice, 

And own— black-puddings they are very nice ! 



92 



LINES IN THE VISITORS' BOOK, 
JUNE 13, 1853, 



After having sojourned four very pleasant days at the "Hand" Hotel, 
Llangollen : kept by Mrs. Amy Phillips. 



Land of fierce rocks and smiling "vales, 
Of floods and cataracts so grand, 

Of songs and spirit-stirring tales, 
Come let me greet thee by the " Hand.' 

I love thy plains, thy vales, and hills, 
Thy creature-comforts at command, 

Thy inn, thy hostess, and her hills, 
Her welcome face and open " Hand." 

When tourists all have had their day, 
Upon this ground alone I'll stand ; 

When winter frights the crowds away, 
I would be left in thy right " Hand." 



LINES IN THE VISITORS' BOOK. 93 

May Time with, frownless visage linger, 
Forgetting hour-glass, scythe, and sand, 

Nor beckon thee with his dread finger, 
Nor ever shake thy friendly "Hand !" 



94 



CASTELL DINAS BRAN. 



Speak. Low ! the evening air attentive listens, 
The nightingales no more their concords raise, 

Yon lonely trembling star so brightly glistens, 
Speech but encumbers, as we upward gaze ; 

Speak low 

On yonder peak, methinks the echoes sounding 
Eternal wailings through the ruins grey, 

Boom, as it were, the hills and rocks surrounding, 
Reproachfully their melancholy lay, 

Speak low. 

€an'st thou, fair maiden, whilst the valley ranging, 
Hear the sad plaint of infancy betray' d ? 

And 'midst a scene with beauties ever changing, 
Resign thy smiles for sorrow's deep'ning shade ? 

Speak low. 



CASTELL DINAS BRAN. 95 

Lo ! 'twas a cruel fate, — while hope was shining, 

On infant brows so innocent and fair, 
Through grace, and love, and joy, so sweetly twining, 

To leave such ample retribution there ! 

Speak low, 

Ere ten bright years the infant heroes number' d, 
When Bran's grey height a tragic story speaks, — 

Alas ! that such should be ! — the sweet ones slumber'd, 
Their dreams seemed nestling in their dimpled cheeks. 

Speak low, 

Kindred and guardians, in night's blackest hours, 
In the false guise of friendship and of faith, 

No tender pity felt, but snapp'd the flowers, 
Soon to be woven in a cypress wreath. 

Speak low. 

Shade of Glendower ! whence those ceaseless surges, 

So wildly dashing on their gurgling way ? 
They seem to mourn with everlasting dirges, 

The sad, sad tale of many a bygone day. 

Speak low. 



96 CASTELL DINAS BRAN. 

And yet 'tis not that tales of deep dejection 

To Cambria's fairy land alone belong; 
We know of many a pleasant recollection, — 

And when the bard shall tell his plaintive song — 

Speak low. 



Gladly and cheerily the mountain heather 

Gleam'd such bright joy thro' all the live-long hours ; 

Gladly alone, and cheerily together, 
Our path seemed strew' d with sunbeams and with flowers ! 

Speak low. 



Yes ! yes ! speak low ! —the heart feels most emotion, 
• When voice is pow'rless: — and when thy grief 
Or joy shall warm thy soul with true devotion, 
And thou shalt pray, shalt hope for, blest relief, — 

Speak low. 

Every tourist in North Wales will remember the interesting 
ruins of Castell Dinas Bran, a stronghold of Glyndwr, on the 
peak of a conical hill, 900 feet above the village of Llangollen. — One 
of the legends, of which this scene has produced a legion, tells of 
two beautiful children, brothers, who were cruelly sacrificed by 
their guardians, — impelled by the lust of wealth and power. These 
lines are addressed to a lady, one of an agreeable party of tourists, 
in North Wales, in the summer of 1853. Her name is in the yerses. 



F. WARR, Printer, 63, High Holborn. 









I . jZ^n SQUARE y/j 



